


One For The Model

by decimate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Competition, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decimate/pseuds/decimate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson, Liam Payne, Niall Horan, and the already envied Zayn Malik are only five of the twenty contestants in the most challenging modelling competition in the world--"One For The Model." There are strict rules they must adhere to, including the infamous "No sexual interaction" rule that gets broken by someone every season, and the models' every move is displayed on television, every Friday at eight o'clock at night. If there wasn't enough pressure already, there are ten rounds of two challenges, and each round is in a completely different country. A million ways to get disqualified, and only two ways to win: follow the rules and take good pictures. Could it really be that hard?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I just wanted to say that I am a bit new to AO3. I'll probably update these notes later, when I get the gist of things. Yeah, that is all. Please don't laugh at me.

It didn’t fully hit Harry that he was about to have his life flipped upside down until he walked into the London Airport, red suitcase dragging on two squeaky wheels behind him. He was greeted by the “One For The Model” camera crew way sooner than he had expected.

Not even five steps into the cold building, and the lenses were already trained at him, a man standing off to the side directing him to keep walking forward. Bystanders stared in mild curiosity.

Anne walked by his side, cautiously gripping his arm. She was his mother, but also the mother of Gemma Styles, one of the most in-demand female models of the year. She was used to cameras like these following her daughter around, but not her son, who, until now—and without much warning—never really cared for modeling.

“Styles, aren’t you?” the man called out. He held a clipboard in his hands and a headset was clasped over his ears, a thin microphone bobbing up and down as he spoke. He was on the heavier side, clad all black, just like the two tall, broad-shouldered cameramen beside him.

The corners of Harry’s lips twitched up in slight nervousness. Anne, noticing this, was the first to introduce herself. She extended her hand out towards the man and said, “I’m Anne Cox, Harry Styles’s mother.”

“My name’s Mark, how are you doing,” he said, shaking her hand.

Anne smiled, a bit relieved noticing his manners. “I’m good, and you?”

Mark gestured towards Harry. “We’ve been waiting for him all morning long.” One of the cameras was getting dangerously close to Harry’s face. He flinched back without noticing. “The flight is already set, so no need to hurry. We just need to get him against a good backdrop right now and do the first interview before we go. Is that alright with you?”

It took Harry a beat too long to realize Mark pointed the question at him. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he said, but it felt a little like a lie. He wasn’t exactly ready—he wasn’t expecting this, at least not this soon. He wasn’t even on the plane yet.

He handed over the suitcase to Anne, slowly.

“Say your goodbyes now,” Mark said. “We leave right away. And you don’t need the suitcase—contestants are provided with everything they need the moment they board the plane.”

Harry frowned. He faced Anne, who was hiding her shock at how fast it was all moving. Not even Gemma was ripped away from her this fast, ever. Especially not when Gemma entered the competition herself—and later won it.

“Bye, Mum,” he managed. He leaned in for a hug, and Anne happily returned, then sadly. It would be more than a month before she would see him again. No contact with the outside world was permitted while still in the competition. That’s why Harry left his phone at home, and why Anne restricted herself from reminding him to call her when he had the time.

She would only see him, now, on television, the show aired every Friday, eight o’clock at night.

“Bye, Harry. Have a safe flight,” she spoke, then pulled away. The cameras were trained on her for a second before moving back to Harry.

“Let’s go,” Mark said, and ushered him down to where the airport windows overlooked the airplane runways. Harry glanced over his shoulder one last time, wondering if this whole ordeal would be worth it—if he was really fit to win, or if it would all be a waste.

 

***

 

Everyone who knew Harry also knew that it would not be a waste.

            Mark wrapped the interview up—the questions ranged from “What is your name and age?” to “What do you think of the competition?” to “Do you love your mother?” to even the unavoidable “Do you think being Gemma’s younger brother is an advantage?”

Harry immediately said it wasn’t an advantage at all, and that Gemma herself would agree. She was, after all, the one who urged him to compete, making it perfectly clear that she would not help Harry with a modeling career, and he would instead have to build one himself if he wanted it.

The cameramen packed up their equipment, and Mark led Harry to the gates. All of Harry’s needed documents were clipped to his clipboard, yet Mark barely needed them. All he had to say was “We’re with _One For The Model_ ” and flash his ID and he was immediately allowed to pass through hidden pathways Harry did not even know existed in an airport.

Harry smiled, for the first time since entering the airport. This was all so different, yet all so exciting.

The plane was small from the view of the window. The stewardess scanned their passes and opened the gate for them, and they walked quickly down the long tunnel with the cameramen and their heavy equipment left behind to wait for their own separate flight. Inside, however, the plane looked much larger, with generous space in between each seat, which could recline into a comfortably wide bed.

Most of the seats were occupied.

Numerous pairs of eyes flicked up, and they were all quite beautiful eyes. And as Harry walked down the aisle to find his seat, he thought about the competition being a waste again. It wasn’t typical of him to think that way—he usually looked on the bright side of things, and accepted them as what they were—but with each glance averted his way he felt some of his confidence diminish.

The boys looked taller, more rugged somehow, and the girls beautiful and heart melting. Nine other boys, and ten other girls. Nineteen other competitors. Harry felt himself being blown out of the water already.

Diana Gonzalez looked up from her reading material, saw Harry, and nudged the small, soft-voiced guy who had kept her company during their long wait for the plane to fill up. Louis Tomlinson, too, looked up from his book— _The Art of Stealing Gentlemen_ —and then smiled.

“What about him?” Diana mouthed.

Louis shrugged, shaking his head in disapproval. “Not my type,” he mouthed back.

Yet he stared a little too long as Harry walked past their seats, stopped, and then sat down directly behind Louis. Diana saw him smile to himself, bringing the book up to his face as to hide it, and thought about teasing him later.

“ _Attention, passengers. This is your pilot speaking._ ” The engines of the plane roared to life, then sputtered, then settled into a streaming, perpetual hum. “ _We are about prepare for take-off. The weather in London, England is partly cloudy, with light showers here and there. We are expecting clear weather for most of the trip. Our destination today is Prague, Czech Republic. Please buckle in your seatbelts at this time. Smoking is prohibited during the duration of your flight._ ” The speaker clicked off.

Louis buckled himself in and pulled down the shade over his window.

A few seconds later, the passenger behind him did the same.

The plane moved, leisurely at first, as planes do. Louis gulped and peeked in between his and Diana’s seat, through the wide crack that would not help him in concealing himself, and because of that, Louis knew it was a risk. But he just had to see.

The boy had buckled himself in already as well and was leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, the complimentary blanket still folded in his lap where his hands rested as well. Quickly, Louis turned back around in his seat, just as the safety instructions started rolling over the screen in front of him. He did not focus on them.

The boy behind him had long hair, pulled tight into a bun. His hands were big, and his arms, the tanned skin revealed by the sleeves that had been pushed up to his elbows, were tattooed.

Louis tugged down his own sleeves.

The plane sped up, fast. It lifted off the ground before Louis could realize it. He felt someone nudge his elbow again, looked at Diana, but she was completely engrossed in her book. The two fingers that had tapped him were still there.

“My name is Harry. Harry Styles. What’s yours?” The hand lifted up. Louis, lips parted, twisted to his side so that he could shake it, barely noticing the turbulence as the plane continued to rise, though it was starting to level out.

“I’m Louis. Louis Tomlinson,” he replied.

Harry took back his hand, and Louis turned around again, and that was that, but Louis’s heart had quickened its pace just a little, and in the back, a grin spread over Harry’s face.

For a moment, he almost forgot there were strict rules in place.


	2. Two

Prague smelled like bread, and then, as the camera crew and the twenty models—and, not to mention, the producer’s assistant—moved further along, it also smelled like tomato soup. The street was cobbled and wide, the sky was cloudy, and despite it only being afternoon, the orange street lights flickered on and sent a warm glow over the puddle street.

Harry walked in the back of the group.

He liked this because he had the opportunity to walk more slowly without having to slow down anyone behind him. He paused now, as the rest of the group did, but while they listened to the assistant producer, Sheryl Collins, continue to bark directions about posture and “looking bright and happy” while the cameras were still on them, Harry ignored.

He let his eyes skim over the white, red-roofed buildings, and at the shops running along the street. The street was nearly empty and there were no cars, but the restaurants and boutiques were full of people, talking in a language Harry could not understand, especially through the glass.

The group started moving again.

They were, to Harry’s dismay, breaking away from the center of town and to the sidewalk that ran along the white fence, the one on the ledge, that would ultimately lead them to the bridge, over the river, and then back to their hotel. Harry knew this was more for the cameras to catch dramatic shots of the models than for the models to get to know the city better, but he did not mind.

At one particular moment, a red bearded man urged him to look over, and Harry stuck out his tongue at the camera. One of the girls giggled, but did not say anything to Harry. Instead, she turned to the other two girls by her side—girls befriended each other so quickly, Harry thought—and whispered something in between their circle.

“We’re almost at the bridge! I want all of you to run over it, and I want you all laughing. We need good shots for the intro! C’mon people, liven up!” Sheryl ordered

“What if we slip? The ground is bloody wet,” one of the girls, somewhere from the front, piped up. The assistant producer did not pay attention.

The bridge was covered in cobble as well, and was slick and smooth and shiny from the rain. People started running, and it was only cue for Harry to run as well. He made it halfway over the bridge, proud of himself, the wind blowing through the stray hairs falling out of his bun. His flannel fluttered behind him, and he smiled, and then he didn’t. He shrieked in the most unmasculine way possible as foot twisted underneath him.

Harry hit the ground on his shoulder, releasing all of his breath in one puff and then having it hitch in his throat as he tried to inhale again. It stung his whole arm at first, but when he started to regain a normal breathing rhythm again, all he felt was the cold, wet ground.

Clumsily he stood up. He almost slipped again before a hand grabbed at his elbow, helping him regain his balance.

“Are you alright, mate? It’s like, you did a front flip or something.”

All the cameras were now trained on them. Harry let out a shaky laugh, his face flushed. “I’m all good, thank you,” he said to the guy that helped him. He had dark eyes, tattooed arms, and black hair that was parted in the middle and swooped back as if he was already in some sort of modeling catalogue. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

The rest of the models have been watching him, but now that he appeared unscathed, they had continued on their path to the hotel. Sheryl looked Harry over once or twice, her nose pointed up in unspoken disapproval, before she too continued to walk.

“Thank you,” Harry breathed out for the third time. He pressed a hand to his shoulder. It didn’t hurt much, but there was definitely a bruise.

He and the guy started walking too. “My name is Zayn, by the way. You’re Harry, right?”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry said. He smiled and dropped his hand back down to his side. How unceremonious of him. “How did you know my name?”

“I heard you introduce yourself on the plane. Well, not directly. People were whispering around about you. They think you’re quite the charmer,” Zayn said, his mouth forming a side grin as if he’s laughing at Harry.

“I doubt they think that anymore,” Harry said with a laugh, but Zayn only shrugged.

Zayn, to Harry, was handsome. There was no doubt about it, and there was no doubt as to why he made it into the competition. His jaw was formed in all the right angles, and his eyes weren’t a spectacular color, but somehow, he made them spectacular. His cheekbones were high and defined, and his lips weren’t full but pursed out naturally as if they were. If Harry was looking for someone, and if there weren’t rules as strict as they were right now, and if Harry hadn’t already had his eye for someone else . . .

Someone else. That other boy on the plane. _Louis Tomlinson_. Harry smiled to himself, hoping he hadn’t mouthed the name. He swore he did, as soon as it crossed his mind, but maybe Zayn didn’t catch it.

Oh, but that boy was beautiful. He hadn’t had a proper look at him, but even then, there was something about the shape of his face, the curl of his hair, his voice. _Something, something, something_. Things Harry couldn’t place.

“So, where are you from?” Zayn asked.

Harry blinked, as if to clear his head. “Holmes Chapel. And you?”

“Bradford.”

There was, suddenly, the scuffle of footsteps behind them. Another camera man. Are they really going to be filming their every move? “I think I’ve got family in Bradford,” Harry says. “Friends, too. Have you ever met anyone by the name Boyle? I went to school with him, and then one year for uni before he . . . well, he didn’t really drop out, but things weren’t working out. He needed a job. Anyway, he moved to Bradford.”

Zayn shook his head. “No, sorry man. Maybe if I think about it for a while.” He laughed. Harry laughed too, for nothing. This is how introductions went after all, right? “Mate, I’m going to have to go and catch up. You feel better, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry said, but Zayn didn’t hear all of it because he was already gone, catching up, and Harry was again at the back of the group. Even the camera man left him alone.

In the very near distance, just beyond the parking lot—the only road so far that, at least to Harry’s notice, wasn’t cobbled—was the hotel, tall and regal and a shade of pink. They were only going to be here for a short time, but according to Gemma, the first few nights were always the longest because there was always a “Welcome to the Competition” celebration, usually on the second night.

A pang of sadness, of homesickness, hit him out of nowhere. If it was a while before Harry got eliminated, then it would also be a while before he could talk to his family again. _Get it together, Styles_ , he thinks to himself.

It doesn’t help much.

The day had been fast paced, especially the goodbye to his mother, but maybe tomorrow, things would be different. Maybe tomorrow, it would all slow down and Harry would have time to organize his thoughts, read a book, and decide his feelings on the whole thing. If he didn’t want it bad enough, he wouldn’t have even made it into the competition at all. Right?

 

***

 

Harry found his hotel room a little too late. He had a key but did not need to use it, since the door was already left ajar. This room was on the thirty-fourth floor, and courtesy of the competition, all the contestants got the fanciest rooms in the highest rated hotels no matter in which city they were staying.

For Prague, a fancy hotel room did not need to be spacious. Harry walked into a white-carpeted living room. The wallpaper was red and made of thick velvet, and the first thing Harry noticed was the chandelier. The couches were white, facing a sleek, electric, smokeless fireplace—Harry recognized it because his sister has the same exact one at her house.

He had been gripping his shoulder the entire elevator ride to the floor, but he dropped it at his side again. To the right, the living room branched off into a small eating space—it wasn’t really a kitchen, but it was something—and to the left, a door led to the bedroom. Harry pushed it open.

“And the last one arrives!” a voice booms. A pillow is thrown at Harry’s head, followed by a burst of giggles and him staggering to keep his balance once again. “Wait, shit—that’s the one that fell over!”

“Yeah, that’s . . . that’s Harry.”

Harry recognized the second voice from the plane—soft and delicate that held _something_ about it already—but not the first voice, which was deep and laced with a thick Irish accent. Harry closed the bedroom door and collapsed onto the nearest bed.

“Is this one taken?” he mumbled into the pillow.

“Yeah, by me.” The bed sinks down at the end by Harry’s feet—someone had sat down—and Harry lifted his head.

Across the room was a blonde boy, a little shorter than Harry, and in his hands were two pillows. There were three other beds on that side of the room, just like on the side Harry was on, and all three of them were occupied by girls.

One of them, the one on the far left, squealed as the boy attacked her with one of the pillows. The one on the far right jumped to her defense, pouncing on the blonde boy until he had collapsed to the ground. Both of them laughed.

The girl on the middle bed got up and walked over, and it reminded Harry that someone was sitting by him. It was Louis, who quickly looked away as soon as he caught Harry’s eye. Harry couldn’t believe his luck.

“Hi, my name is Winona,” the girl says. “I come from Hong Kong.”

“Hi,” Harry said, as cheerfully as he could muster. He took another glance at Louis before he sat up to shake Winona’s hand. She was surprised at the gesture. “I like you hair.”

Winona’s hair was short and dyed a bright red. She smiled brightly in response and pushed a curled strand away from her face and behind her ear. “Thank you. I like your bun.”

“Me too,” Louis commented. “What does your hair look like without it?”

Louis started to unbutton his shirt. He got up and walked over to the drawers. They were already full of clothes, like Mark had promised. The competition really did take care of them well.

But—Louis was unbuttoning his shirt. He slid it down his arms, and because he was facing away, he only revealed a tanned, lean back. Harry’s face felt hot, for an instant. He convinced himself to think nothing of it. “Well? Are you going to show us?” Louis asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Winona sat next to Harry on the bed. “Here, I can help,” she said, and started to undo the bun for Harry. His hair, which was long and still had curl to it, fell out of the elastic, and Harry quickly fixed the part with his hands. Louis slipped on a new shirt, one that he randomly picked out from the drawer, and turned back around.

“Nice hair,” he said, briefly revealing a nice set of teeth. He turned away again. Harry pretended it didn’t bother him. Winona had asked him something, and he muttered a suitable response. She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder, and it didn’t feel strange but still somehow new. “Hey, Niall, how much longer before we are called down for the meeting?”

The blonde boy— _Niall_ —was still on the ground. He stood up at the sound of Louis’s voice. “Not long, I don’t think.”

Louis crossed over to the other side of the room and jumped onto Winona’s bed. Winona stood up and urged Harry to follow her, and both of them joined Louis on the bed as well.

“Is that Harry?” Niall asked. Harry nodded. “Winona got you first, eh?”

Winona grabbed the nearest pillow at him. He dodged. “Shut up, will you?”

“No,” Louis said, shaking his head. “I think I got him first.” Harry couldn’t see him clearly, because Winona was between them on the bed. He wasn’t sure if Louis was joking.

“Did you really, Lou?”

“Yeah, on the plane. We introduced each other. Didn’t we, Harry?” Louis propped himself up on one elbow, facing him. Harry gulped. He didn’t know if it was a crush, or _what_ , but suddenly he enjoyed looking at Louis, who’s eyes, he could tell now, were so incredibly blue, and whose brown, wispy hair was curled up over his forehead with hair spray—and Harry found himself thinking that it would look good if it was down, fringe brushing over Louis’s eyebrows. “Harry and I are practically best buds now.”

“Well,” Harry began, propping himself on his elbow as well. Said elbow was on the arm that he fell on, but he could ignore the mild stinging to be eye level with this boy, whom he met less than twelve hours ago. “I wouldn’t say we are best buds. We barely know each other.”

Louis’s eyebrows raised. “Is that so? Then why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

Harry smirked. “Like what?”

“How old are you, Harry?”

“Twenty? Yes, twenty.”

“I’m nineteen,” Winona said. “And Louis . . . what did you say you were? Twenty-two?”

Louis nodded. “If only—” He hesitated. “Tell me what you like to do for fun?”

Harry sighed, feighing an expression as if he was in deep thought. He was about to answer, when a pillow made sharp contact with his face again. “Stop flirting and start fighting. Don’t break rule number two before the season has even started.” Another pillow. Louis caught it before it crashed into him, and sent it flying back in Niall’s direction.

Niall, don’t initiate a fight you might fucking regret soon enough!” Louis yelled, dramatizing his voice for effect, even puffing out his chest a little. Harry’s eyes were glued to him, in awe. Niall laughed, a loud laugh at that. “Is that how you want it then?”

Niall dodged the first pillow, but the second one sent him tumbling on the floor again. The girl on the far right bed, the one that had pounced on Niall earlier, joined Harry and Winona on the bed, taking Louis’s spot where he had left it. Louis was running around the room, picking up as many pillows as he could.

“How does your shoulder feel?” the girl asked.

Harry shrugged.

“Okay, then. I guess it will be okay if I do—” She pushed Harry off the bed, who screamed. “—this.”

Okay, that meant war. Harry sprung up and took the pillow from underneath Winona’s head, and soon, all of them were fighting, and laughing, and slowly, Harry already found himself feeling in place. Like he belonged.

“I can’t believe we’re in Prague!” one of them yelled. Harry wasn’t sure who, but it didn’t matter, because he felt it too.

That, and also luck.


End file.
